


Angel and his Princess

by Misha_Collins_Overlord



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Fluff, Homophobia, Homophobic John Winchester, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Kid Fic, Learned homophobia, Loyalty, M/M, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 17:49:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3945982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misha_Collins_Overlord/pseuds/Misha_Collins_Overlord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were wrong. Disgusting. Dean was a Winchester, by blood and by name, and Winchester men were not fags.<br/>You can't grow out of homophobia overnight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angel and his Princess

Years.

It had taken them years.

Growing up on the road, crammed into the backseat of their father's treasured '67 Chevy Impala, the only views he was comfortable having were John's. Not Sam, though. Sam had started rebelling as soon as he realised not all kids knew how to field-strip a pistol in under a minute. Before he realised how different they were.

Dean was a good little soldier. Obedient to a fault, to an absent father, loyal because all he had was his family, their shoebox of tapes in the car, and the arsenal in the trunk. Everything else was temporary. Interaction for the family - mainly Sam and Dean - was kept between the three of them.

Sure, the boys were sent off to school, but John had always thrown away the comment, "Civilians don't really know anything." And it stuck with Dean. He never took anything said by a non-Winchester seriously. Sam, on the other hand, listened intently to his teachers, and classmates, smarter than the latter but furiously scribbling nearly every word from the former. Classmates, teachers, anyone they needed information from on a hunt - they didn't interact with anybody else. They didn't need to.

Dean's views were John's views, because everything else he had was. The music taste, the way he carried himself, the leather jacket, the car. It was all John's.

So the first time a chubby-cheeked Dean saw two men kissing from his seat in the Impala, his little face screwed up in confusion. "Dad," he called. "Dad!"

"What, Dean?" Came John's tired reply, hand wiping over his face, trying to rub away the bone-deep exhaustion that was always there.

"Those two boys are kissing," he squeaked, pudgy finger aimed toward the scene. "Gross," giggled Sam from his constant place besides Dean.

Their father's eyes flicked up, and his expression grew sour. "Fags," he muttered. "It's disgusting, and I don't ever want to hear you talking about two _men_ like that. Got it?"

"Got it, daddy," he'd mumbled, acquiescent but already twisting his opinion into their father's, already stubbornly loyal, their father's word to him gospel, absolute truth, because why would John ever lie? Grown ups tell the truth. It's a known fact.

Dean, true to form, never spoke about it again. Any time after that when he'd seen two men, or two women, together, his eager-to-learn green eyes would flick to John's face, seeing the distaste curling his upper lip, and Dean's would follow suit. Until that reaction became ingrained into him, until he no longer needed to look to his father to know that homosexuality was something to sneer at, to insult.

The sneers, muttered insults, the throwaway comments were always kept for his own ears. Just under his breath. Homophobic words passing lips that should've only passed poetry, beautiful literature, music. They were not created for prejudice and slurs. "Fuckin' fags," he'd whisper, mouth making the words sound just as beautiful as any he would utter, but they were not meant for his vocal chords to form, to push out.

Now, in the bunker with Sam and Castiel, he often found himself wondering just what that angel would feel like under his hands. What noises he could draw out. What he would taste like. And, every time without fail, he would berate, curse, _hate_ himself for those thoughts. They were _wrong._   _Disgusting_. Dean was a Winchester, by blood and by name, and Winchester men were not _fags_. They had blood redder than [Ayers Rock at sunset](http://www.uluru.com/images/activities/uluru_sunset.jpg). Liked good whiskey, greasy food, and easy women.

Sam had taken to leaving Dean and Cas alone, never giving a reason, just, "I'll give you two some privacy." And honestly if he ever said it again, Dean would thank him with a sweet right hook.

This time was different. They were sitting at the table, Dean researching, Cas just being quiet, Sam reading. Sam made a noise, like he'd decided on something that had been bugging him for ages, standing, making his way over to Cas.

"Dean, close your eyes for a few, don't open them until I say," he raised his eyebrows at Dean.

"But-"

"Dean." His face displayed a bitchface of the highest quality. His older brother made a show of sighing, eyes rolling theatrically before falling closed. He heard muffled whispering, but couldn't make out the words. Then quiet footsteps leaving the room.

A pair of lips pressed unsurely against his own, and his eyes flew open, pulling back as fast as possible, looking around for Sam. No Sam. Just a very confused angel less than an inch away from his face. His jaw clenched.

A very deep breath was drawn into his lungs, lids fluttering closed as he very gently pressed his lips back to Castiel's.

And that was the beginning. Dean still felt uncomfortable when he kissed Cas for an amount of time he deemed too long, still trying to accept that he was indeed attracted to the angel. A lifetime of homophobia doesn't go away in an instant.

He'd taken to calling Castiel "angel" sarcastically, but the sarcasm slowly lessening every time, indeed turning the word into a pet name. Sam overheard him use this new pet name when he had been feeling particularly content, the word affectionate.

"Awww," Sam drawled. "That's so cute, _princess._ " Dean's jaw clenched, shooting Sam a look.

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

That night, after Dean had kissed Castiel for the longest time yet, he drew back, confusion in his eyes. "I don't know where you got your tips, angel, but you're not bad."

A small smile crept up onto the angel's too-beautiful face, eyes lighting up with affection. "Thank you," he responded, voice deliciously low. His lids squinted minutely, as he pondered something. As an afterthought, he added, " _princess_."

Dean stared. Princess.

Angel and princess.

His lips formed into what felt like a frown with a smile edging up. He ended up smiling, air blowing out of his nose as he shook his head. "Alright, angel," he grinned.

He could think of worse things to be than Castiel's princess.


End file.
